


The Pleasant Works of A.J.

by TheSolitaryGrape



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multiple Time Periods, Pining, lovestruck demon, these idiots share one whole braincell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-26 14:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20027803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSolitaryGrape/pseuds/TheSolitaryGrape
Summary: In London in 1601, Aziraphale discovers a stack of unpublished poems by a mysterious author known only as A.J and is instantly enamored. Fast forward to the present day, and our angel thinks he may have a theory on who the anonymous author is.





	1. 1601

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I haven't written fanfic (or much of anything, really) since about 2015, but then this show came along and captured my heart (seriously it's kind of concerning). Then I saw a post by acuteangleaziraphale on tumblr with this prompt essentially and immediately fell (ha) for the idea. I plan for each chapter to be set in a different time period, this one obviously starting at the beginning in the Elizabethan era. Please enjoy! (Constructive criticism is welcomed, straight-up arseholery will be blocked)

Aziraphale walked back to the hotel, thoroughly contented by the evening’s performance. After returning from Edinburgh and all of the antics therein (specifically a rather aggressive run in with a ram), he felt that he deserved a reprieve, in the form of going to see a performance of Hamlet. Though he was disappointed in the lack of a certain attendee (not that he would admit it), he was exceedingly pleased to see the packed theatre, and left with a strange, warm feeling of satisfaction. At what, he was unsure, but nonetheless it followed him for the rest of the night as he indulged in the food, wine, and general revelry of a midsummer street fair. It stuck with him as he stopped in the tavern of the hotel to chat with several of the mildly intoxicated occupants, and this feeling was still tailing him like a lost puppy when he went up to his room.

When Aziraphale opened the drawer of the bedside table, he was surprised to find a sheaf of paper. As he hesitantly flipped through the works, looking for an identifying mark, he could not help but read snippets of the verse which filled these pages, and was slowly but surely ensnared, tempted from his search by the eloquent author. He assumed the works to simply be some early Shakespeare, before he had figured out how he wanted to present his work, or even if he wanted to. The sonnets were so tender, so sweet, so imbued with longing and love that the angel thought that none but the bard himself could have conceived such beauty. 

And yet, there was something different about the author. They used different beats, different form, and the handwriting was sharper than that which filled the notebook that Aziraphale had been gifted after a particularly serendipitous evening. And the language, too, differed from the works of Shakespeare. There was less structure and rougher wording, and yet none of this detracted from the raw beauty contained within the pages.

“Good Lord.” Aziraphale breathed to himself, enamoured instantly. He read and re-read and re-read again, so engrossed with the words dancing across the page and his mind that he started when the first beam of sunlight struck through the window and across his desk. The angel sighed, gathered up the pages strewn about him, and prepared himself for an arduous journey to Brussels to perform a minor miracle. And if the sheaf of pages that were simply signed A.J, having found themselves without an owner (the inn had no record of anyone staying in that room for the last two weeks), miraculously made their way onto the desk of a certain publisher, well then, that was just their luck, wasn’t it.


	2. 1862

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their fight in the park, Aziraphale muses on eternity and makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Thank you so much for all your love on chapter 1, especially the anon I got on tumblr (same name as here). I've gone back and split up the paragraphs more in chapter one, and I've done my best to do the same for this one (while still retaining the pacing and tone that I want). Please, don't be afraid to comment or suggest anything. The reason I write is for people to read and enjoy, so if there's something I can do to do better, I want to know! This is a long note, I'll leave y'all to the story. See you at the end!

Aziraphale stormed through St James Park, fuming over the frankly inconceivable boon that Crowley had just asked of him. _“Holy water!”_ He muttered to himself, stalking down Waterloo parade, such a scowl painting his usually amicable face that even the most determined newspaper boy dared not bother him. Safely home and mind still reeling, the perturbed angel decided to fix himself a nice, cosy hot chocolate and peruse some of his favourite works in his collection. Aziraphale found that nothing could calm the mind and set muddled thoughts straight like a particularly good book, and with the day he had had, he needed something especially captivating. 

As he absent-mindedly browsed his shelves for the right volume, his thoughts turned to the conversation… no, argument, of the morning. As vehemently as Aziraphale denied it to himself, the thought of a world without Crowley scared him more than anything else, more even than Heaven finding out about The Arrangement. In this rapidly changing world, filled with humans whose lives were so fleeting, Crowley had always been Aziraphale’s rock. Though Crowley himself was also everchanging, as a stone changes form under the pressure and weathering of time, and decades could go by between meetings between the celestial beings, the angel could be confident in the knowledge that they’d always meet again, and since Paris, barely a week went by that they had not at least met up for a drink. 

This was one of the reasons that he loved books so; the permanence of the ink on paper, a single volume containing the metaphorical soul of a human that could endure for eternity, the way humans had found their own entirely unique form of immortality, that was the beauty of books to Aziraphale. And, he mused, for the particularly distressing day he’d had, he required something comforting, something familiar. As this notion graced his thoughts, his eyes landed on the small chest tucked away neatly in the back corner of the back room, and he smiled softly to himself.

A.J.

Ever since he had stumbled upon the mysterious poet, Aziraphale had become a bit of a fanatic. After the works had been published, he had bought (or otherwise acquired) as many individual volumes as he could, which was admittedly not an enormous number as, though the author was no doubt an excellent writer and had earned a little notoriety (despite their anonymity) , they had been somewhat overshadowed by a certain bard who was publishing works at the same time, and therefore had not garnered the following and respect that Aziraphale felt they deserved. 

Either way, they were exactly what he needed right now. Blowing off a small cloud of dust (it had been a while since he’d been distressed enough to seek the comfort of A.J, especially with so many fascinating new texts being written recently), Aziraphale set the chest on the ground beside his reading desk, and rummaged around gently, letting the worn yet cared for covers caress his hands with the familiarity of a childhood friend’s smile. 

“Aha.” He exclaimed softly to himself, finding what he was seeking; a beautiful, emerald green hardcover, titled _The Pleasant Verse of A.J_. He placed the book gently on the desk and went to close the chest when the corner of a page laying right at the bottom caught his eye. Brow furrowed slightly, Aziraphale extracted the paper from beneath the neat stack. Unfolding it, the angel gasped, eyes widening as he was struck with a realisation. You see, dear reader, when our dear Aziraphale had miracled the sheaf of paper onto the desk of the original publisher of A.J’s works, he had not necessarily delivered all of them. He could not resist the temptation of holding onto one, just one, for himself, a certain poem that made his heart ache with longing and that understood him more than he thought a being was capable of. 

However, the rediscovery of this was only part of the reason that Aziraphale found himself sitting back in his chair, one hand covering his mouth and the other holding the recently-found poem. No, the other reason for this rather dramatic reaction was the familiarity of the handwriting. Handwriting he had seen not two hours earlier, on a note that was seared into his mind, spelling out the reason for this whole quest through his collection in the first place.

_Holy water._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Aziraphale evidently has use of the braincell for the moment. I'm only a short ways into chapter 3, but I'll try and get some done today ready to post tomorrow morning (I'm Australian, so the ~optimal posting time~ for me on ao3 is about 3am-1pm according to this* reddit thread. Anyway, thoughts, comments, criticisms? Feel free to let me know! I'll try and get some writing done today and hopefully have chapter 3 ready for you tomorrow! Happy reading!  
~TheSolitaryGrape  
*https://www.reddit.com/r/FanFiction/comments/8swh9p/when_is_the_best_time_to_post_a_story_answered/

**Author's Note:**

> Well, how was it? I hope you enjoyed, I have a second chapter written so if you want more, please leave a kudos or comment or just interact in any way, really! Have a lovely morning/day/evening/night, and I hope to see you soon.  
~TheSolitaryGrape


End file.
